The Storm That Sweeps So Quiet
by justira
Summary: Alma and Tietra, and a quiet moment in a quiet tower.


Alma's spine aches. She has been bowed over this tome for entirely too long. Study is normally a pleasure, particularly the histories or the great tales of the Church, but this day she set aside to get through an endless dissertation on courtly graces. Studious as Alma may normally be, her heart is not in this. Today, the floor is distractingly hard beneath her folded skirts, even with the spare cushion. Her bodice itches unreasonably. Behind her, Tietra's quiet breathing and quieter warmth brush down Alma's back; she had persuaded her friend to take the window seat and regrets it not one bit, discomfort or no. It's not Tietra's fault that Lord Haverell's text drones so. Outside, the sunshine drips between tumultuous clouds; the air is heavy and moist, and the clouds tower high. It is not a day for study, not at all.

She runs her finger down the rich vellum of the page and listens to its smooth whisper. Behind her, she hears Tietra shift, the soft sigh of fabric and the rougher-edged rasp of pages rubbing together. Well, if Tietra feels it too...

A distant roll of thunder crawls through the room, the air trembling with its weight. The vast size of the sound seems to shrink all distance in its reverberate shadow, and within their small tower hideaway, the sound lingers in the stonework, whispers in the warm narrow space between Alma's back and Tietra's legs. The thunder seems to drone on forever, an endless echo of the words that just won't stay in her head today.

That decides her. Alma stretches, unrepentantly letting the tome fall closed between her knees. At the apex of her unwinding, she feels her nape brush against Tietra's knees, relishes the whispered secret thrill of it. She stays there, then, lets the stretch melt into relaxation and tips her head back onto Tietra's lap. It is impish, a bit, covering Tietra's own book with the spill of her mussed hair, but when Alma opens her eyes from the stretch's savour, she sees only that Tietra is smiling down at her.

"Does Lord Haverell not hold your attention today?"

"Does he ever?" Alma shifts, rolls her eyes. "He writes of the young maiden's duty as if he can think of no subject duller. It's rather difficult to disagree with him."

Tietra hums neutrally.

"Does the proper depth of curtsy fascinate you, then?" Alma teases absently, settling more comfortably against Tietra's shin.

Tietra's smile is a bare quirk of lips, quickly gone. Alma watches it slide off her face, and feels the weightlessness drain out of her heart, all levity slipping from them both, seeming to leave tracks like oil. Apologies stick in Alma's throat. Her hand is stronger: it reaches up, hesitant and heavy, but reaching all the same. Her knuckles land clumsily against Tietra's cheek. It's soft under her awkward touch, but beneath that she feels Tietra stiffen, sees her eyes fall closed.

"You are born to it, Alma. Sometimes it seems like the grace rests in your very bones." Tietra open her eyes again, meets Alma's, and Alma's hand feels abruptly heavy, hot where it rests still on Tietra's jaw. She doesn't know what to do with her hand, suddenly, an awkwardness born too recently and as yet fragile, unresolved. She's not sure what it means, or maybe sure and scared, and swallows against her trembling when Tietra tips her cheek against Alma's palm, sighs in a tired search for comfort. She feels it, against her fingers, when Tietra continues. "I wonder, sometimes, if I study the steps of the dance enough, would it satisfy them? Or is it writ into my skin?"

The last is quieter, and Alma feels it more in the shape of Tietra's jaw against her hand than as sound through the close, storm-heavy air. _Your skin is lovely_ , she almost blurts— and it is, soft under her fingertips, tanned and flawless. Alma is not that daring.

Or—

"There are other dances," she says, quiet, her hand carefully relaxed where it rests, still against Tietra's cheek.

Tietra inhales, the sound too loud, her eyes lifting with her indrawn breath.

Alma doesn't flinch, does not pull away, does not pull Tietra down. Somewhere, Ramza and Delita train with sword and shield and strength of arm so that they may stand unafraid on some distant battleground where blood will spill and souls wisp out in crystal shards. The Church tales glory in this, the soul ripped with violence from its vessel, made visible in that bloody tearing: evidence, touchable and luminescent, of the blessing of this age in Ivalice. But this, too, is battlefield and glory, dance and danger where souls may be lost. The rush of her blood must echo what Ramza feels, and she wonders if he feels this fragile, open and almost wounded before any blade has touched him.

Tietra's hand rises to cup against Alma's own, and Alma's breath flies in past her teeth, dry and too fast. She is aware of where her nape still rests against the warmth of Tietra's thigh, of her other hand uselessly adrift in the mess of her own skirts.

"This is no dance I've studied," Tietra whispers. He fingers squeeze, gentle, against Alma's.

Alma's breath clots her throat. She sweeps her thumb, slow, against the arch of Tietra's chin, takes a quiet delight in its tremble. "Me neither," she confesses. Then she smiles, self-conscious. "But we're a studious sort, aren't we?" It feels reckless and heady.

Tietra's fingers firm against hers, and a flush of cold sweeps through her when Tietra lifts Alma's hand away— but then Tietra's mouth is against her palm, and Tietra's breath collects there, wet and warm, when she speaks. "You have always been a delight to study with," Tietra breathes against her. A sharp heat sifts through Alma's veins, so sudden and so thorough, the first break of a summer storm all throughout her skin.. Alma's own hand hides the curl of Tietra's smile, but above, Tietra's eyes are sparkling, hesitant still but brave. Always so brave and steady.

This dance, at least, Alma thinks must not be so different from House to hovel, not in any way that matters. She's read the steps, traced their patterns in courtly lays, in outrageous bawdy songs, in staid and proper histories. She's wondered, as she imagines all must do, but there was no preparing for the way her limbs feel warms and heavy, how her skin seems to waken, aware as if there is a breath of magic upon them both. And this, this feels right, Alma below and Tietra above. She doesn't think she could have braved this, had their positions been reversed, had she not pressed Tietra into the breeze-brushed seat by the window on this hot day, if she had had Tietra looking up at her from below, the symmetry of their positions laid so painfully bare.

But Tietra's eyes are soft above her, and Tietra's lips press against her palm, and Alma's free hand rises in an awkward scrabble, lands on Tietra's knee, presses, insistent and wanting. Tietra's hand twists in hers, their fingers clumsily twined, and the richness of Tietra's hair falls about them, keeps their breath close, the moment encased and precious before their lips touch.

The song of it saturates her. Outside, the rain is starting. It curtains them away from the world for a short while, and soaks the air in the scent of new green things stretching up to drink in the water.

* * *

 **Notes** : Written for the 2014 round of DOINK! Final Fantasy Exchange.

 **Prompt** :  
Alma/Tietra - A bookish and quiet sort (Just outrageously fluff it, go on, you know you want to. Love the innocent young girlfriends.


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